


Founders Week 2019

by handsofstardust



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Forest Magic, M/M, Naruto Founders Week 2019, Role Reversal, Soulmate AU, clan swap au, one shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-11 14:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsofstardust/pseuds/handsofstardust
Summary: A collection of one-shots for Founders Week 2019





	1. Day 1: Forest

Hashirama is born in the autumn as the maple leaves turned to fire. The midwife pronounces him healthy and strong. His father, ever practical, always thinking of the war, is proud to have a healthy heir and another body to put onto the battlefield. His mother is glad he will not succumb easily to sickness.

The Senju stronghold is ensconced deep in the forest, the trees creating a maze around them. All Senju children are brought up knowing the trees meant protection. Every night Hashirama’s lullaby is the sounds of creaking woods and the wind through the canopy, an ancient whisper of comfort.

* * *

Hashirama is four when his mother goes into labour with his sibling. His father is away on clan business, and he is banished into the forest to stay out of midwives’ way. He stomps away into the forest, feeling sullen as his mother’s cries recede. He doesn’t understand why he has to go away. The last time this happened there wasn’t even a baby. It never cried and so he never met it.

He plays at the foot of the old oaks and pines, until he stumbles across the piled roots of a pillar-trunked cypress. A tattered string of shide intersects its bark, and Hashirama climbs up to the trunk to have a closer look. As soon as he lays his palms on the body of the tree, a stillness washes over him. It is peaceful and kind, like the rare times his mother has held him and hummed softly, lulling him to sleep. He feels something thrumming at his core, like a heartbeat, like a song. He closes his eyes and lays his ear against the bark, and he can almost imagine he hears something. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, but when he pulls away to answer the clansmen calling for him, he can feel the same energy coursing through him.

His mother’s rooms smell of blood when he enters. His mother sits on her futon, looking tired, a bundle of blankets in her arms. As he approaches, she holds it out to him and she sees a crop of snowy hair and a wrinkly red face. “Your little brother,” his mother say, her voice soft. “His name is Tobirama. Protect him.” Hashirama stares, wide-eyed, at the little boy and wonders if he will hear the forest too.

* * *

Hashirama is almost seven when his father puts a sword in his hand and sends him onto the battlefield. It is a skirmish against a smaller clan fighting against extinction after being battered by the Senju on one side and the Uchiha on the other. It takes place on a barren plain, devoid of life, and in seconds Hashirama is caught up in the maelstrom of battle.

He clashes against men twice his size, with boys his age, he is thrown to the ground, he crawls in the mud, he staggers to his feet, his arm is cut, he slices someone’s leg, he is deafened by explosions, he wants to cover his ears against the screams, someone lunges at him with a kunai, he ducks, he swings his sword, blood sprays, he is triumphant.

It lasts as long as he doesn’t see his victim.

Something icy clamps in his gut when he sees the little boy at his feet, gurgling through the gash at his throat and trying to call for his mother. He dies and Hashirama falls to his knees and sobs.

When his father finds him like that at the end of the battle, he is struck so hard he sees stars. His father pins him down, raising his fist to do more, but stops when he catches sight of the tiny green shoots that have sprung up where Hashirama’s fingers had clutched at the dirt. There is a new light in his father’s eyes as he is dragged back into the embrace of the forest, leaving the carnage of the flatlands behind him.

* * *

Hashirama is twelve when he stumbles across the raven haired boy skipping rocks at the riverbank. He watches from the safety of the trees as attempt after attempt fails to reach the other bank. He wants to help (and to show off) but he is hesitant to step forward. His limbs ache from the endless cycle of battle and mokuton training. His father has filled his head with stories of Senju warrior that could create cemetery forests, the trunks of the wild, twisting trees entombing the bodies of thousands of enemies. He spoke of poisonous pollen, of gates that could fell a tailed beast, of rejuvenating powers that could heal any wound. His father spoke of these things and Hashirama felt that even though he could only grow a sapling, he was becoming something other than human.

His father has tried to keep him away from his brothers as much as possible to focus on his training, but Hashirama is beginning to wonder if maybe there is another reason. Maybe his father is trying to keep the monster away from the children.

He frets over these things as he watches the boy and begins to turn away. Then a breeze sighs through the trees and he falters. He looks up at the canopy and feels the warmth of summer wash over his cheeks. He can smell the sweetness of sap on the air.

There is a new determination in his heart as he turns back towards the river. The forest is a place of life and growth, and his powers stem from that.

He steps forward into the open, power thrumming in the earth under his feet.

* * *

Hashirama has lost track of how old he is as he walks away from the village and into the forest. For the first time since the valley he can see the brightness of the day and find the small comforts in the noises and smells of the forest.

He can grow his own forests now, but they feel different to the ones that came from the earth. His carry the weight of chakra and the knowledge of death. He looks back with fondness on his childhood beliefs of the mokuton being a peaceful gift. The old forests know death too, but that is simply part of a cycle rather than an end.

He doesn’t know how long he walks for, or where he is going, but he knows when he’s found it. It is a shadowed patch of the forest, dense and creaking with age, with a single disc of sunlight streaming through the canopy above. Hashirama walks forward and stands in the light, letting the rays warm his cheeks. He hasn’t felt this peaceful for many years. Not since he killed Madara. Perhaps not since Madara left the village.

He smiles as he thinks of his friend, and for once it is not tinted with sadness. He thinks of the village and he doesn’t taste bitter regret on his tongue. Tobirama and Mito will take care of it. They will keep the children safe. He cannot continue there. It is time for him to return to the forest. He closes his eyes and claps his hands together, letting his power surge through his body and into the earth. Wood and leaves grow up around him, from him, through him. He feels himself begin to drift. He’s never liked to prove his father right, but he will make a concession for this. He cannot rest in a human place of the dead. But here in the forest, his home, his sanctuary, he knows peace. He has always known peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, my first fanfic work since I was sixteen, which was awhile ago. Let's see how writing Naruto goes! Kind of a weird one for this first instalment, but here it is.


	2. Day 2: Soulmates

When Izuna had suggested a trip to Venice for brotherly bonding, Madara had known it was a mission to try to get him to make a friend other than Mito, who was now swanning around with her soulmate in Hawaii. It was probably also a mission to get them both laid, but Madara wanted to shrivel up like a salted slug when he thought of that. He developed an allergy to intimacy when he was emotionally vulnerable.

On principal, Madara knew he should have refused to take time off work, but he was in the ninth layer of stress and was beyond caring about the paperwork stacking up at home. Furthermore, Italy had good coffee with which he could constantly fuel his caffeine addiction. The espresso he was sipping was his fifth coffee of the day, and he knew he was probably going to die young, but he really didn’t care right now.

He downed the rest and left money at the counter before heading out into the streets. Izuna had run off somewhere to take sneaky snaps of tourists he found funny, declaring that Madara needed to have a ‘Me Day’. Madara had no idea what to do on a ‘Me Day’, so he had just been aimlessly wandering the streets and stopping at places that looked like they had good coffee. His ‘Me Day’ was turning out to be a disheartening experience of self reflection, during which he came to grips with his crushing loneliness and undiagnosed clinical depression, as well as contemplating the meaninglessness of his own existence. He probably needed some professional help, but he hadn’t quite reached the critical level of mental breakdown to overcome his mental block towards reaching out for help yet.

Thanks Taijima.

Sighing, he pulled out his phone to check the time. He still had another two hours to kill before meeting Izuna outside their hotel. Maybe he should get him a truly awful novelty souvenir just to annoy him.

He was about to put his phone away when he froze. He hadn’t been paying attention to the stark black numbers on his wrist over the holiday, except for when they had arrived and he had laughed because the number was so big it wound almost all the way to his elbow.

Now it read a hundred and forty-two. His soulmate was in Venice. A hundred and forty-two steps away from him.

He missed the dirty glares he was getting from passers-by for stopping in the middle of the street, too transfixed by the new numbers. As he watched they began to click downwards, and he took an experimental step forward. The number clicked down again and he began to walk, entranced.

Then he stopped dead, a fear unlike anything he had ever felt before filling his heart. His soulmate was about to meet a caffeine high, sleep deprived, anxious, depressed, self loathing mess with terrible eye bags. He looked like Nosferatu with hair and no one was going to want that in their life.

So Madara did the only Madara-logical thing and booked it in the opposite direction.

* * *

Hashirama stepped out through the ironwork gates and onto the street and let out an almighty huff, tilting his head back. The passing tourists were staring but he didn’t care right now. He needed a walk.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and he walked into the winding streets of the city. The city was busier today, but he managed to find one of the quieter bridges away from the main canals and stopped. He leant on the railing and watched the boats bob in the water, trying his best not to fume.

Tobirama had warned him they would be dealing with stubborn, crusty old fossils. He had warned him the fossils would combat reason with ideology. He had also said this was just a practise conference in preparation for the big one later in the year. He had warned him that there was no point getting distressed over the inevitable.

But Hashirama should have known it would be too hard not to get distressed when he was talking about literally saving the planet and all of its citizens from the changing climate and he got accused of just trying to get grant money in response. Maybe it would be better if rising temperatures just killed them all.

With a melancholic sigh, Hashirama checked the numbers on his wrist, and he paused. He always checked the numbers whenever he travelled to a new place, and it had been a struggle to keep his excitement contained when he had seen the dramatic decrease when he had landed in Venice. He knew (and Tobirama constantly reminded him) that he had to focus on work, but every time he walked to and from the conference hall or walked to find somewhere to eat, he would keep an eye on them. They had been hovering around or above five hundred, but now they were sitting at two hundred.

He bit his lip. That wasn’t far. The conference had adjourned for the day and he didn’t have any set plans with Tobirama. He knew he should be preparing for tomorrow but… everyone needs a break, right? He took a few steps forward and the numbers ticked down further. That convinced him and he continued on.

Venice’s labyrinth of streets made it difficult to close the gap, but Hashirama slowly wound his way closer. He had only been walking for a few minutes before the numbers suddenly jumped down, then stopped. A smile quirked the corners of his mouth. Were they walking towards him? However, the smile dropped a second later when the numbers rapidly began to climb.

Frowning, Hashirama continued on his path but the gap continued to grow larger. He picked up his pace, but it made no difference. Without really meaning to he began to run, gaze flashing back and forth between the numbers and the street.

Over the next five minutes of whirlwind running and adrenaline, he almost knocked three people into the canals and got lost about thirty times, but eventually he had worked the number down to twenty. His heart was pounding and he became abruptly aware of how anxious he was. The moment of finding one’s soulmate had been considered sacred throughout centuries of human history, and he was about to experience his sweaty and out of breath.

He ran down an empty, narrow street and broke out onto the cobbled bank of a canal. He stopped in the opening of the street, panting, just as a man with a wild tangle of black hair burst out of another opening across the street. They glanced at each other and simultaneously looked to their wrists. Ten steps.

Smiling, Hashirama looked up, only to see the man breaking into a run and sprinting down another street. Confused, he called, “Wait!” then ran to the bridge to cross the canal.

* * *

Stupid Venice. Stupid trapping canals. Stupid streets that felt like they were going one direction when they were actually betraying you and leading you back to the thing you were trying to escape. And stupid streets that actually led to dead end piers onto canals too wide to vault over.

Madara stood twitching at the end of the pier and briefly considered trying to swim to the other side of the canal. He discarded the idea; even if he did get mowed down by a ferry, his skin would probably rot off later.

“Hey!”

At the sound of the voice, Madara wondered if getting deported for stealing a boat would be worth avoiding this situation. However, he overpowered the urge and turned around to watch the man approaching him from the street. His eyes widened a little and he felt even more inadequate when he realised his alleged soulmate was a six-foot-something muscled tree of a man with gloriously silky brown hair and a warm, open face. He was also approaching like Madara was a scared animal, but he couldn’t really be blamed for that.

“Hi!” said the man, smiling. “You, uh… You certainly gave me my workout for the day!”

Madara said nothing, reflexively checking the numbers and staring as they ticked down to one. He looked up again and found the man was standing close enough for him to smell his leafy scent. His mouth dried up as the man smiled and held out his hand.

“I’m Hashirama,” he said, soft and gentle, almost tender. “You are…?”

Madara tried to swallow and croaked, “Madara.”

He took Hashirama’s hand and immediately a feeling of serenity and warmth washed over him. His eyes flickered up to Hashirama’s and their gazes locked. A shiver ran down his spine and he gasped at the same time as his soulmate. He looked down at their clasped hands just as the numbers faded from both of their wrists.

Hashirama let out a breathy laugh and said, “Well… I think we should get a drink, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” murmured Madara. Out of the muddled glow of his thoughts he managed to think of Izuna. “Uh, just let me… text my brother.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah! I should text mine as well.”

They both pulled out their phones, and Madara typed:

_Just met my soulmate. Getting drinks. See you later._

When he put it away he looked up and saw Hashirama was looking at him like he had scattered the stars in the sky, and it sent his heart all aflutter. His phone began to buzz with an incoming call, but he ignored it and nodded, smiling as they walked side-by-side back towards the main street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I went to Venice recently, I got inspired, and what? I know it's cheesy. You can claw my Venice setting from my cold dead hands.


	3. Day 3: Clan Swap

Mito clapped her hands together and wood sprung from the ground, more ordered than the trees on the battlefield. She moulded her chakra through the wood, forming the planks into a round building then adding a second storey on top. When the supports, walls, floor and roof beams were in place, she stopped the flow of chakra and put her hands on her hips, admiring her creation. With a bit of work from the tilers and glass crews, she knew it could be a centre point of the village.

She turned to her watchful companion, jerking her head towards the new structure. “Well? What do you think? A good office for a leader, right?”

Hashirama grinned and nodded. He was dressed in dark green today, which she considered a victory in her epic task of getting him to wear colour other than black, and it brought out the warmth in his eyes. She could understand why other women were so infatuated by him. “Very good. I think you’ll look quite regal, looking out over the village.”

She rolled her eyes and punched him on the arm. “It’s going to be you, and don’t you try to deny it. I might do the heavy lifting, but you’re the darling!” Her joking mood softened. “Without your optimism, none of this would have been possible.”

He looked sheepish and laughed, “Oh come now! If you hadn’t been willing to talk to me that day, my proposal would never have even reached the ears of our clans, let alone any of the others.”

“Well if you hadn’t come up with the proposition in the first place, we wouldn’t be anywhere!”

“We’re being gross.”

“Yes, yes we are.”

“Anija!”

They both turned their heads just as Tobirama landed beside them, looking the most uncomposed Mito had ever seen him. He was dressed in a sleeping yukata decorated with a pattern of little Uchiha fans, and he hadn’t even redrawn the seals at the corners of his eyes that kept his ocular migraines at bay.

He opened his mouth to blurt out his news to Hashirama, only to snap it shut again when he noticed Mito. She grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good morning Tobirama! You seem to be in a rush. Why don’t you tell big sister Mito your news?”

She cackled internally when he flushed, but her humour quickly died as he pressed on, “A delegation from the Uzumaki have arrived outside the gates.”

“When?” Hashirama asked immediately, suddenly all ice and steel. Mito gave him a sidelong look. As much as he tried to avoid it, he could only do so much to keep the coldness his clan had drilled into him at bay.

“Not two minutes ago. They just appeared out of thin air and demanded to speak with the leader of the village.” He gave Mito a sullen look. “So I suppose it’s fortuitous that Lady Mito is here as well.”

“Things are always fortuitous when I’m around dear!” said Mito, before turning to Hashirama with a more sober expression. “Shall we go to greet our guests?”

“Yes.” There was thinly veiled tension behind her friend’s eyes.

She smiled at him and said, “It will be fine. We knew the more powerful clans would make contact eventually.”

With that they dashed towards the gates, reaching them in under three minutes. When they landed, Mito saw several Senju and Uchiha men had already surrounded the group of three people, their weapons half raised and bodies tense. The newcomers looked less than pleased by the situation, but there was a refined air about them that suggested that they would look less than pleased about most things.

Standing a step in front of the other two was a man dressed in white, his hands clasped in front of him, and a veritable cascade of ebony hair tied in a high ponytail at the back of his head. A pin book ended with two funjitsu seals had been stuck through it, and his black gaze was calculating as he looked them over.

Mito began to walked forward, and she immediately felt the weight of the man’s chakra roll towards her. She wasn’t much of a sensor, but even a civilian could sense this immense chakra.

“This isn’t much of a warm welcome,” drawled the man, expression unchanging. “How are you supposed to entice new clans to your utopia if you greet everyone with drawn blades?”

“You’re the jinchuriki,” Mito blurted out. The Uzumaki clan was relatively small and anonymous compared to the Uchiha and the Senju, keeping out of the larger conflicts of the warring states. However, every shinobi in the land had heard of the terrifying beast their leader would unleash upon any who dared to threaten his people.

The man arched an eyebrow. “Again, it would be more polite to introduce oneself before delving into private clan matters.”

“And tell your men to lower their weapons!” snapped one of the younger men standing behind their leader.

“Quiet, Izuna,” murmured the man, but Mito gave her nod of approval to the guards, who complied and stepped back.

Given a chance to compose herself, she smiled brightly and dipped her head to the man, saying, “Apologies for our rudeness. I am Mito Senju. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The man nodded then looked to Hashirama. When no response came, Mito frowned and looked at her friend, only to find him gaping and starry eyed as he stared at the man. Mito glanced between the two, properly taking in the man’s dark hair, pale skin, and the hint of muscle cording down his arms from under his white robes. Oh dear.

She cleared her throat loudly, snapping Hashirama out of his stupor, and said, “Lord Hokage, our guest has asked you a question.”

Hashirama gave her a startled look, spluttering, “Lord Ho-? Oh, um-.” He offered a short bow to the newcomers. “I am Hashirama Uchiha. It is…” He paused, looking at the man again. “truly a pleasure to meet you.”

Mito wanted to laugh and slap him at the same time. Thankfully, the man didn’t seem fazed, as he bowed and said, “I am Madara Uzumaki. He gestured to the men either side of him. “This is my brother, Izuna, and my advisor, Hikaku. We have come to discuss the terms of an alliance with your village.”

Mito reckoned she and Hashirama must have both looked like happy puppies at his words, and she said quickly, “Of course! We’d be honoured to include the Uzumaki amongst our number!”

Madara didn’t quite smile, but it was close. “Very well. We shall discuss conditions inside.”

With that he swept past them, heading for the entrance, his companions trailing after him. Mito watched him go, a little stunned, then turned her best smirk and wiggling eyebrows combination on Hashirama.

He flushed and muttered a quick, “Oh be quiet,” before hurrying after the delegation. Mito wandered after him, grinning to herself.

Fortuitous indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To elaborate on this AU a bit, I think that Uchiha Hashirama and Senju Mito wouldn't have met until they were older because Mito would have been kept secluded with other young girls until the clan realised the power of her mokuton. Just through sheer force of will and optimism, Hashirama would have come up with a rough idea of the village that Mito helped refine when they both ceased conflict when they became clan heads. Due to geography, Uzumaki Madara wouldn't have come into the picture until after the village's creation, and he would have sealed the Nine Tails because he be extra.
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone!


	4. Day 4: Role Reversal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some violence here.

Madara walked to the Hokage monument, trepidation making his heart skip a beat. No, trepidation was too light of a word. This was pure dread, brought on by an indescribable premonition that had been haunting him for weeks. He had tried to set those dark thoughts aside. He had tried to see only the positive things in Hashirama’s words, because surely the negatives were minimal in comparison. He had tried to ignore Izuna’s words of warning, because his little brother didn’t know Hashirama like he did.

But when Hashirama had found the old scrolls speaking of reincarnations and curses, he had changed in a way Madara didn’t want to understand.

A shiver ran down Madara’s spine as crested the stone slope of the monument and saw his friend waiting for him, the wind blowing his hair out like a banner. Dried autumn leaves fluttered past Madara’s face, and as he looked at the white robed figure he wanted to turn on his heels and run. However, he knew this was something he couldn’t run from, so he continued forward, making his steps unnecessarily loud.

Hashirama turned around and smiled at him in greeting, and Madara knew it was a bad day. The smile reached his friend’s eyes, but it was a cold, pinpointed light, caught in some terrible limbo between clarity and mania. Madara didn’t bother trying to return it but allowed Hashirama to take his hands when he came to the edge of the monument.

“Finally! I was worried you weren’t going to come,” said Hashirama, voice light as he rubbed circles against the backs of Madara’s hands with his thumbs. He pressed them lightly in between the bones, his voice dropping as he said, “I didn’t want to have to come and find you.”

Madara’s mouth dried up but he managed to keep his voice steady as he replied, “I had clan matters to attend to. You can’t blame me for handling things that keep the village running.”

Hashirama laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. He squeezed Madara’s hands briefly then said, “No, not right now. But none of that needs to matter anymore.”

Madara frowned, resisting the urge to pull away. “What do you mean?”

He could sense Hashirama was on a knife’s edge right now, and pushing him could be catastrophic. Not to Madara, but to Hashirama himself. His reputation was already in the mud after the last massacre. Madara didn’t want any more of the village’s suspicions to be turned on him.

Hashirama’s smile was bright as their eyes met. “I’ve found the solution Madara! The scrolls, they speak of a jutsu that could end all conflict! It’s the realisation of our dream!”

Then Hashirama told him about the Infinite Tsukuyomi, about the Rinnegan, about the eternal dream, about an endless cycle of reincarnations, and Madara felt his blood run cold. It sounded idealistic, and yet… and yet he could see it was nothing but a prison. It was running away from reality, and he couldn’t stand it.

Once Hashirama finished, he waited expectantly for Madara’s response. Madara swallowed and said carefully, “I thought… I thought the village was the realisation of our dream? This seems… there has to be a catch.”

Thankfully Hashirama’s smile turned gentle as he said, “I assure you, there isn’t. I have analysed every character in those scrolls. This is what we’ve been waiting for!” He reached up and ran his thumb along Madara’s cheekbone, his fingernail just brushing his lower eyelid. “You’re going to be beautiful with purple eyes.”

Madara blinked. “What?”

“Well, you’ll be the one with the Rinnegan of course, and you’ll probably have to become the ten tails jinchuuriki. I don’t have visual prowess after all! You’ll have to graft some of my cells to yours because of the whole Indra-Asura thing, but the pain from that should be nothing when it comes to pursuing peace!” His smile dimmed a bit. “Is this a problem?”

Madara shook his head and tried to sound analytical as he said, “No, I just… I want to consider all options and study this a bit more before I commit. I mean, it sounds too good to be true.”

Hashirama shook his head, but he was still smiling. “You don’t need to my love. I triple checked that the procedures wouldn’t cause any permanent harm to you. And the people under the jutsu just go to sleep! Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

“I’d like to look anyway.”

“Alright, alright!” Hashirama laughed again, before the coldness Madara had begun to dread came into his eyes. “There’s another thing though. You will need to focus solely on obtaining the Rinnegan in order for this to work, so you can’t get distracted by village matters or… dissidents.”

Madara stiffened. “Dissidents? What dissidents?”

Hashirama shrugged. “There will be people who don’t agree with this plan. That’s just a fact. But this is important enough that we can’t have them spreading misinformation or doubts about it.” He cupped Madara’s jaw again. “I wanted to let you know that I will be dispatching them. There is no room for splintering of opinions here, and we have to let people know that.”

Madara stared at him, ice creeping from his heart through his veins. He thought of his father, of the cut throats and crushed skulls that lay in the wake of the inter-clan ‘disagreements’. He thought of the sword raised to plunge through Izuna’s heart and panic began to bloom. But just a quickly as it grew, it was smothered by a new, clear determination.

Madara cast his eyes down, sounding apprehensive as he said, “I understand but… wouldn’t it be better to be merciful?”

“Not in this case.” Hashirama tilted Madara’s chin up so their gazes met again, and Madara slipped a kunai into his hand. “So… is that a yes to the plan?”

Madara maintained his dubious air, but nodded, knowing it was what he would normally do. The pure joy in Hashirama’s expression almost made him falter, his heart breaking as Hashirama pushed their foreheads together and breathed, “I knew you would! You really are a gift from the divine. I love you.”

Madara didn’t look away as drove the kunai up under Hashirama’s ribs and into his heart. Hashirama’s eyes widened, his lips parting, but that’s all he had time to do before he collapsed. Madara caught him, slumping to his knees with the weight of his friend, and Hashirama’s eyes were glassy and unseeing as his head lolled back towards the sky.

Madara stared down at the body, numb. His hands had a death grip on Hashirama’s shoulder and waist as he held the body against him and stared. He kept staring, but that warm face he loved so much didn’t move. He didn’t realise he was crying until a harsh, keening sound tore it’s way from his throat. It was the only sound he made before pulling the body up and burying his face in the still-warm neck, shoulders shaking as his world came crashing down around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this role reversal I feel the Hashirama and Madara's power levels would be the same as they were at the Valley of the End, so Madara could only really win by being a snek. Also I love a good angsty death.


	5. Day 5: Childhood

Prim and proper. That is what a good wife is and therefore that is what a good woman is. Mito had had these words drilled into her since she was able to understand words and she hated them a tiny bit more after every repetition. That hatred had doubled when she had been confined to flower arranging and weaving when the boys had had swords put in their hands and were learning water and earth seals. Mito could see a corner of the training yard through the window of the weaving room and jealousy gripped her heart whenever she saw them crossing wooden blades or forming hand signs together.

“Lady Mito, please focus,” said her governess sternly now, looking up from her own, more refined work. Mito glared at her then sullenly returned to manipulating the thread. This seemed so pointless in comparison.

As if reading her mind, her governess said, “You are the clan head’s daughter. You will learn funjitsu that can defend our people. You just have to learn the womanly arts first.”

“Why? Jutsu’s more important,” demanded Mito.

“For boys, yes. Not for girls. Women should not be using ninjutsu unless the home is threatened. We are here to support the men. Understand?”

“No,” muttered Mito, glaring down at her work.

Her governess’s thread snapped and she calmly moved to replace it. “You will.”

* * *

Mito wasn’t told people from another clan were coming until she was being ushered out into the yard to stay out of their way. Her handmaid deflected all of her questions about who they were, and by the time the shouji door slid shut she only knew they were clients seeking her clan’s seals.

She was left prowling around the garden in the cold, end of autumn weather, not knowing what to do and too cold to just sit and think. She pouted until she rounded a corner and saw a young, dark haired boy kicked at the dead leaves in the courtyard. She stopped but had no time to consider a greeting before he was turning around and staring at her. Black hair, black eyes, black, worn clothes. Her clan called the Uchiha ‘Crows’, and now she knew why.

They stared at each other, both uncertain. They were from different clans. He was a boy, she was a girl. What was there to say to each other?

He broke the silence first. “What do you want?”

No one except her parents and her governess had ever spoken to her so abruptly. She bristled and, walking towards him, replied coolly, “I want to have a look at the intruder in my courtyard.”

The boy folded his arms and sneered. “I’m not an intruder. I was invited here. And it’s not your courtyard.”

Mito raised her eyebrows. “But it is. I’m the clan head’s daughter.”

The boy looked genuinely surprised, then flushed and muttered, “Yeah, well. I’m still not an intruder. My father’s paying yours for your clan’s jutsu. We’re customers.”

Mito rolled her eyes, making his grumpiness flare, but she pushed on, asking, “Are you an Uchiha?”

Childish grumpiness transformed into an unnervingly mature guardedness. Mito suddenly thought of the stories she’d been told of the child soldiers and carnage that tore apart the mountains and forests inland. Dozens of clans tearing each other apart, vying for territory and mercenary jobs, staining the ground with pointless blood. Standing before was a result of this seemingly distant conflict.

“Yeah. So what?” said the boy, voice blank.

She shrugged, trying not to let her unsettlement show. “No reason. I’ve just never met anyone from your clan.”

He looked away and began kicking at the leaves again. “I know we’re not impressive.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to. We’re good at killing. We’re not rich or fancy or anything.”

Mito’s lip curled and she snapped, “That doesn’t mean anything! If it meant I could get out there and learn ninjutsu and how to fight, I’d want to be part of your clan.”

The expression on his face as he whirled around was so fierce she shrank back.

“You wouldn’t!” He spat. “If you knew you’d never want that!”

He turned his back on her, fists clenched. She remained frozen when she was, uncertain guilt writhing in her chest. She didn’t know what to say, so she stayed silent in her shame.

A few awkward seconds ticked by before he asked, voice calmer, “Why do you want to learn ninjutsu?”

She swallowed and said quietly, “Because they won’t teach me. Women aren’t supposed to learn anything but defensive sealing jutsu.”

He turned and gave her a hard look. “Who cares what the adults say? If you want to learn then find someone who’ll teach you. Or teach yourself. I thought girls were supposed to be smart.”

Mito puffed up again at this, but before she could say anything the door to the main hall behind them opened and a dark haired man stepped out, a teenager at his side. He glanced at them and called, “Madara, we’re leaving.”

“Yes father.” The boy gave her one last look. “I’m going to think you’re weak if you don’t know three powerful jutsu when I see you next.”

With that he ran to walk with his father and the other clansman, leaving standing in the courtyard, a feeling like fire in her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon that the Uzumaki stayed out of the main conflicts of the warring states, but were still sold certain seals or sealing shinobi to the warring clans to keep themselves going. They were sort of a neutral party, so struck deals with everyone for cash until Konoha was founded.


	6. Day 6: Brothers

Madara wiped the cool cloth against Izuna’s brow, a ritualistic movement by now. Nothing could cool the fever that was tearing his brother’s body apart, following the tracks of dark fire that traced from the wound up the slender body. The sickroom smelt of rotting flesh and blood, and the only sound was the wheezing breaths Izuna slowly sucked in.

Madara hadn’t been outside in five days, not since Izuna’s condition had deteriorated. He had moved from either side of the bed and to the kitchen to prepare tea and fetch medicines. He had let no one but the physicians in, and now that they had given their final prognosis, he didn’t allow them to trespass either. Thanks to Izuna’s gift, he could see all of it in terrible, unwanted clarity.

“Nii-san,” his brother rasped suddenly.

Madara’s hand was clasped around Izuna’s clammy fingers in an instant. “I’m here.”

Izuna coughed, a phlegmy, rotting sound. “I had a dream about when we were kids. Remember the time I told you…” He grinned, gaunt. “about my preferences?”

Madara blinked then smiled, squeezing Izuna’s hand. “Of course. It was the first time I’d seen you so… _visibly_ upset.”

He did remember. Izuna had been just about to turn thirteen and had silently slipped into their shared room after training. The moment he’d shut the door he’d burst into tears and flung himself into Madara’s arms. Through sobbing and sniffling, Madara had managed to catch phrases about ‘unnatural desires’ and ‘being a freak’ and ‘everyone hating him’. Having been through the same turmoil himself, Madara had caught on fairly quickly to what was happening.

“You were the only one who I thought wouldn’t reject me,” murmured Izuna now, the corners of his mouth quirking up towards his bandaged empty eye sockets. “I was right. Even the fact that I like to suck cocks isn’t enough to scare off the great Madara Uchiha.”

Madara chuckled. “I would be a hypocrite if I was scared of that. Besides…” He pushed Izuna’s hair back from his cold, sweaty forehead. “I swore I would always be there for you. Right until the end.”

Izuna smiled tenderly then coughed, croaking, “And while I do appreciate that my dear brother, what I would really appreciate right now is some herbal tea.”

“Your wish is my command, until you get better,” said Madara, knowing this would never happen. He rose and left the stench of death behind him to go get the tea from the kitchen.

Once he had the water boiling he allowed some of the tension to drain from his shoulders as black despair welled up inside him. It had been Madara and Izuna from the moment Izuna had come screaming into the world and their mother had left it silently. It had been Madara and Izuna against the iron fist of their father. Madara and Izuna on the battlefield. Madara and Izuna earning the patterns of carnage in their eyes. Madara and Izuna in every sickroom, in every infirmary, always.

Madara heaved out a shuddering breath. How could one go on when a piece of their soul dies?

Slowly, his eyes raised to the window, to the trees beyond it. If he ran, he could be at the Senju compound in two hours, probably less. He could prostrate himself at Hashirama’s feet, promise him anything in exchange for his healing powers. He knew his old friend would do it, even without bribery or threats.

But no. That would be a betrayal to Izuna. The best thing he could do now was to be there until the end.

The kettle whistled and he pushed thoughts of what couldn’t be out of his mind as he prepared his tea. He made his way back to the room, tray in hand, only to stop dead when he saw Hikaku emerging from the sickroom.

His advisor paused when he saw him and Madara snarled, sharingan whirling, “What the hell are you doing?”

Hikaku bowed, calm in the face of the waves of chakra, and replied, “Forgive me Madara-sama. I only thought it would be better to cover him. I know that in the rush you can forget to do so.”

The world fell away. “What?”

Hikaku looked confused, then horrible sympathy polluted his expression. “Madara-sama…”

Madara dropped the tray and exploded forward, shoving his advisor out of the way and bursting into the room to the sound of breaking ceramic. His brother lay on the futon, still and limp, the white cloth already obscuring his face. Madara staggered forward and fell to his knees by his side, unblinking, unbreathing.

He stared at those blank white planes of the cloth and fervently wished for a chuckle, for Izuna to sit upright laughing, to tease him mercilessly because that’s what Izuna should do. He was his annoying little brother and even when he was silent Madara could hear him scheming. But of course he didn’t, because Izuna was gone.

Madara keeled forward, almost collapsing to the floor. Always there; except when it mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soz.


	7. Day 7: Free Space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically a Gods AU

“There! Look, look!”

Izuna smacked Madara on the arm, who opened his eyes resentfully. He propped himself up on his elbows so he could over the cliff onto the main plaza of the agora, which was bathed in the orange of the sunset. Two gods were walking down the marble strip, one with hair of moonlight and flowing blue robes, the other all tones of earthy browns and forest greens, tall and sturdy like a tree.

Madara’s lip curled and he flicked his black hair over his shoulder, a flurry of sparks shooting out in the wake of his fingers. “What? We see gods all the time.”

Izuna rolled his eyes, their irises imitating flickering flames. “They’re members of the Emerald Court. We don’t see gods this important all the time. The tall one is Hashirama of the Forests.”

“He should be of no concern to us then,” sighed Madara, standing and stretching his arms above his head. “Forests and fires don’t mix unless the gods want something terrible to happen to the mortals.”

Izuna pouted at him, fiddling with the beaded hem of his red robe. “Stop being such a bore.”

Madara raised an eyebrow, then without further ado shot a fireball into the air from the tip of his finger. It drifted out over the agora then exploded in a brilliant flare of red sparks with a colossal bang. The two gods below them flinched before looking up, surprised. Madara ignored them and grinned at his brother.

Izuna gave him a withering glare. “Why are you like this?”

“Makes up for the Sun Festival,” said Madara, before flaring his flame wings and launching into the air.

He missed the Forest god following his path across the sky with a curious gaze, a brown hand pressed against his chest.

* * *

Despite his act of disinterest with Izuna, Madara asked Mito about the newcomers later. She was bathing in her favourite spring when he asked, water splashing over her marble skin and pearling against the hard ruby of her hair. Mortals who had seen her and lived to tell the tale called her a living statue; an insult to the moon goddess.

“A delegation from the Emerald Court,” she replied, confirming Izuna’s gossip. “They’ll be here for a week or so.”

Madara lifted his blade from the sharpening stone and examined it. “What do they want?”

“To invite me to come back to them at the Emerald Court, of course. Apparently they’ve decided to remember me.” She grinned over her shoulder at his sharp look. “Don’t worry, I’m going to turn them down.”

Madara snorted, concealing his profound relief. “Good. I would be questioning your intelligence if you considered going back to palace life.”

“You wound me with your doubts.”

It had been centuries since Mito had wandered into their wild territory of untamed woods, mountains and lava flows. Madara marvelled at how far she had come, from the naïve, sheltered goddess seeking something more than the court life she had been offered to one of the most feared goddesses in the world. The teachings of Madara and the other fire spirits had done her good.

Mito paused in her ablutions then turned to stare at something next to her foot. “I believe you have an admirer.”

Madara frowned and looked down, surprised as a cluster of purple asters pushed their way through the earth at his knee and bloomed. He shot to his feet, sword in hand, and scanned the tree line for intruders.

“Easy hot stuff,” laughed Mito, rolling onto her front to watch him. “Hashirama mentioned seeing a fire spirit shoot some sort of colourful fire into the air when he arrived, and he wanted to know their name. He seemed rather taken with their display.”

Madara scowled down at the little plant and snapped, “He’s a god. He shouldn’t be so easily impressed.”

* * *

The two gods remained to plead with Mito for the rest of the week, and over that time Madara was plagued by flowers. Everywhere he went there was amaranth, jasmine, jonquil and mallow poking their heads out of the dirt and taunting him with their bright colours. Madara did his best to ignore them whilst trying to hide them from Izuna, who would never let him hear the end of it if he caught on to what was happening.

He also found it hard to not feel like he was being watched. He knew he was. But he was always being watched. He lived in a world of all-seeing gods, so he was always being watched. He just wasn’t used to being watched _intently_.

When a bunch of moonflowers and primroses had grown around his head when he was dozing one afternoon, he stormed to Mito, masking worry with anger.

“Perhaps talk to him,” Mito suggesting, eyeing the flowers he shoved in her face. “It seems like he wants to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to speak with him? I want him to leave me alone!” Madara snapped, folding his arms. “Besides, as if a high god would want to speak with a fire spirit. He must be after something.”

“He’s after something alright,” replied Mito, waggling her eyebrows at him. “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing for you. I mean, how many of your kin can say they’ve caught the eye of a high god?”

Madara paused, something akin to competitiveness gnawing at his concerns. He narrowed his eyes at the goddess and asked, “This isn’t some stupid plot to find me a spouse, is it?”

“Stupid plot? Never!” cried Mito, though the glint in her eyes said otherwise.

* * *

Mito had given the gods an old house in the woods at the foot of the volcano that was only somewhat rundown. Madara approached slowly, madly smoothing down the hem of his tunic as he picked his way through the trees. He didn’t know what the proper etiquette for greetings were. He didn’t know how to handle anything in this situation, and that uncertainty made him bristle. Curse Mito and her goading.

However, before he could truly see the villa through the trees, the foliage thickened and vines sprang up to block his way. He stopped, feeling a presence at his back, and turned around.

The forest god stood behind him in a clearing in the trees, a warm smile on his face. Madara pursed his lips, looking him up and down. Deep earth brown hair streamed from his scalp in a thick curtain, and brown eyes regarded him with open interest. He was taller in person, dressed in green robes, and more handsome. And more than that, Madara felt he could bathe in his power. It rolled off the god like the constant, subtle growing of an old oak, ancient and indescribable, like the volcano but softer. It stole Madara’s breath away.

After a second of staring, Madara managed to compose himself and say, “If your idea was to get my attention, then congratulations. You’ve succeeded.”

The god laughed and took a step forward, saying jovially, “I didn’t mean to unnerve you or anything! I just wanted to meet you.” He tilted his head. “Your fire show the other night impressed me. You’re… very beautiful.”

There was a noise at Madara’s feet and he looked down to see red carnations blooming at his feet. His confidence grew with them as he looked up, a smirk on his lips as he said, “Well then, perhaps you should stop growing these flowers and start expending some energy on me.” Hashirama’s eyes widened and Madara grinned. “What? We’re both gods. This is what we do. Unless… you’re too scared to be with a fire spirit?”

Hashirama was on him in a second, kissing down the column of the next and guiding him to the forest floor. Fabric tore under their hands, fingers ran over warm and burning skin. Then Madara’s legs were hiked over Hashirama’s shoulders and he cried out, half pain, half pleasure as he was filled. They moved together, panting and growling and kissing before Madara sank his teeth into the god’s shoulder as the pleasure built to a crescendo.

They lay naked, side by side as they recovered. Eventually Madara became aware that Hashirama was watching him and he turned his head to return the gaze. “What?”

Hashirama grinned. “I feel lucky. I didn’t think you liked me!”

Madara raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know you, so I don’t know if I like you. I just wanted to lord it over my brother that I got fucked by a high god.” The cloud of depression that crashed over the god’s head shocked him, so he spluttered, “Hey! That doesn’t mean I don’t want to know you!”

Hashirama perked up instantly, beaming at him. “Really? Because I really want to know more about you!” He gripped Madara’s hand. “And I want to know more about your people.”

Madara blinked, and felt a burst of… something in his chest, that felt entirely too fluttery and uncontrollable. So he shook his head and muttered, “Do what you want,” as Hashirama beamed.

* * *

(Centuries later Madara wanted to kill Hashirama’s brother for his part in the mortal’s creation of the stupid paintings of the crusty old god of the underworld carrying off the spry young goddess of the spring. Izuna certainly wasn't letting him live _that_ down.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! Had a lot of fun in Founders week. Thank you everyone for reading and commenting!


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